\ 

0 
0 
0 

7 
2 
8 

7 

9: 

61 

4  ' 

^=1 

!■ 

HE    CRESCENT- MOON 


F*U! 


k^';*): 


fA^-M 


/y^ 


RABINDRANATH  -TAGORE 


THF-MACMILLAN-CO- 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

I       SAN  DIEGO       I 


"There    is    no    frigate 
like  a,  good  booh" 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/crescentmoonchilOOtagoiala 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS  •   ATLANTA    •    SAN  FRANaSCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO..  Limited 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Lro. 

TORONTO 


FRONTISPIECE. 

From  a  drawing  by  Nandalall  Base. 


THE 

CRESCENT  MOON 

CHILD-POEMS 


BY 

RABINDRANATH  TAGORE 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  BENGALI 
BY  THE  AUTHOR 


WITH   EIGHT   ILLUSTRATIONS 
IN  COLOUB 


^eto  |9orfe 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1916 


B«  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  N*Tember,  1913. 
Reprinted  December^  191J  January,  February,  ltl4. 

April,  1 914  Twice.  A'ii?ust.  November,  1914.   Mardi. 
September,  1915.  July.  October,  1916. 


TO 
T.  STURGE  MOORE 


CONTENTS 


PAQE 


The  Home    -------        l 

On  the  Seashore     -      -      -      »      -        3 
The  SouiicE  -------        5 

Baby's  Way  -------        7 

The  Unheeded  Pageant       -      -      -        9 
Sleep-Stealer     ------      12 

The  Beginning  ------      15 

Baby's  World      -      -      -      -      -      -      17 

When  AND  Why-      -----      is 

Defamation  -------20 

The  Judge    -------22 

Playthings  -------23 

The  Astronomer      -----      25 

Clouds  and  Waves    -----      27 

The  Champa  Flower      -      -      -      -      29 

vii  ' 


viii  Contents 

'nam 

Fairyland     -------81 

The  Land  OF  THE  Exile  -      -      -      -      38 

The  Rainy  Day 36 

Paper  Boats 38 

The  Sailor  -------40 

The  Further  Bank         -      _      .      .      42 

The  Flower-School 45 

The  Merchant  -      -      -      -      -      -      47 

Sympathy     -------49 

Vocation       -------50 

Superior-     -------52 

The  Little  Big  Man      -      -      -      -      54 

Twelve  O'clock-      -----      57 

Authorship  -------58 

The  Wicked  Postman    -      -      -      -      60 

The  Hero 62 

The   End 66 

The  Recall  -------68 

The  First  Jasmines  -----      70 


Contents  ix 


PAQB 


The  Banyan  Tree    -----      72 
Benediction  -------74 

The  Gift 76 

My  Song 78 

The  Child- Angel     -      -      -      -      -      79 
The  Last  Bargain     -----      81 

LIST  OF 
COLOURED  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Frontispiece 

The  Home To  face  p.     1 

The  Beginning  -      -      --      -      -      15 

Fairyland 31 

Paper  Boats  -------38 

The  Merchant  ------      47 

The  Hero 62 

Benediction  -------74 


INDEX  OF  THE  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

Ah^  these  jasmines 70 

Ah,  who  was  it  coloured  that  little  frock    ....  9 

Bless  this  little  heart 74 

Child,  how  happy  you  are  sitting  in  the  dust  ...  23 

Come  and  hire  me 81 

Day  by  day  I  float  my  paper  boats 88 

I  am  small  because  I  am  a  little  child     .     .     .     .  54 

If  baby  only  wanted  to,  he  could  fly 7 

If  I  were  only  a  little  puppy 49 

If  people  came  to  know  where  my  King's  palace  is  31 

I  long  to  go  over  there 42 

Imagine,  mother 47 

I  only  said,  "When  in  the  evening" 25 

I  paced  alone 1 

It  is  time  for  me  to  go,  mother 66 

I  want  to  give  you  something,  my  child    ....  76 

I  wish  I  could  take  a  quiet  comer 17 

Mother,  I  do  want  to  leave  off  my  lessons    ...  57 

Mother,  let  us  imagine  we  are  travelling    ....  62 

Mother,  the  folk  who  live  up  in  the  clouds    ...  27 

Mother,  the  light  has  grown  grey S3 

xi 


xii  Index  of  the  First  Lines 

PAOB 

Mother,  your  baby  is  silly 52 

On  the  seashore  of  endless  worlds % 

O  you  shaggy-headed  banyan  tree 72 

Say  of  him  what  you  please 22 

Sullen  clouds  are  gathering 36 

Supposing  I  became  a  champa  flower 29 

The  boat  of  the  boatman  Madhu 40 

The  night  was  dark  when  we  went  away     ...  68 

The  sleep  that  flits  on  baby's  eyes ,  5 

They  clamour  and  flght 79 

This  song  of  mine 78 

When  I  bring  you  coloured  toys 18 

When  storm  clouds     ...     ^     .......  45 

When  the  gong  sounds  ten     ....,.•.  50 

Where  have  I  come  from ,     ,     .  15 

Who  stole  sleep  from  baby's  eyes 12 

Why  are  those  tears  in  your  eyes,  my  child    ...  20 

Why  do  you  sit  there  on  the  floor 60 

You  say  that  father  writes  a  lot  of  books    .     .    .,    .  58 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON 


THE     HOME. 

From  a  drawing  by  Nandalall  Base. 


THE  HOME 

I  PACED  alone  on  the  road  across  the 
field  while  the  sunset  was  hiding  its 
last  gold  like  a  miser. 

The  daylight  sank  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  darkness,  and  the  widowed  land,  whose 
harvest  had  been  reaped,  lay  silent. 

Suddenly  a  boy's  shrill  voice  rose  into  the 
sky.  He  traversed  the  dark  unseen,  leaving 
the  track  of  his  song  across  the  hush  of  the 
evening. 

His  village  home  lay  there  at  the  end  of 
the  waste  land,  beyond  the  sugar-cane  field, 
hidden  among  the  shadows  of  the  banana 
and  the*  slender  areca  palm,  the  cocoa-nut  and 
the  dark  green  jack- fruit  trees. 

I  stopped  for  a  moment  in  my  lonely  way 
under  the  starlight,  and  saw  spread  before 

1 


2  The  Crescent  Moon 

me  the  darkened  earth  surrounding  with  her 
arms  coimtless  homes  furnished  with  cradles 
and  beds,  mothers'  hearts  and  evening  lamps, 

and  young  lives  glad  with  a  gladness  that 
knows  nothing  of  its  value  for  the  world. 


Child-Poems 


ON   THE    SEASHORE 

ON  the  seashore  of  endless  worlds  children 
meet. 
The   infinite    sky   is    motionless    overhead 
and  the  restless  water  is  boisterous.     On  the 
seashore  of  endless  worlds  the  children  meet 
with  shouts  and  dances. 

They  build  their  houses  with  sand,  and 
they  play  with  empty  shells.  With  withered 
leaves  they  weave  their  boats  and  smilingly 
float  them  on  the  vast  deep.  Children  have 
their  play  on  the  seashore  of  worlds. 

They  know  not  how  to  swim,  they  know 
not  how  to  cast  nets.  Pearl-fishers  dive  for 
pearls,  merchants  sail  in  their  ships,  while 
children    gather    pebbles    and    scatter    them 


'4  The  Crescent  Moon 

again.     They  seek  not  for  hidden  treasures, 
they  know  not  how  to  cast  nets. 

The  sea  surges  up  with  laughter,  and  pale 
gleams  the  smile  of  the  sea-beach.  Death- 
dealing  waves  sing  meaningless  ballads  to  the 
children,  even  hke  a  mother  while  rocking 
her  baby's  cradle.  The  sea  plays  with  chil- 
dren, and  pale  gleams  the  smile  of  the  sea- 
beach. 

On  the  seashore  of  endless  worlds  children 
meet.  Tempest  roams  in  the  pathless  sky, 
ships  are  wrecked  in  the  trackless  water, 
death  is  abroad  and  children  play.  On  the 
seashore  of  endless  worlds  is  the  great  meeting 
of  children. 


Child-Poems 


THE  SOURCE 

THE  sleep  that  flits  on  baby's  eyes — does 
anybody  know  from  where  it  comes? 
Yes,  there  is  a  rmnour  that  it  has  its  dwelling 
where,  in  the  fairy  village  among  shadows  of 
the  forest  dimly  lit  with  glow-worms,  there 
hang  two  shy  buds  of  enchantment.  From 
there  it  comes  to  kiss  baby's  eyes. 

The  smile  that  flickers  on  baby's  lips  when 
he  sleeps — does  anybody  know  where  it  was 
born?  Yes,  there  is  a  rumour  that  a  young 
pale  beam  of  a  crescent  moon  touched  the 
edge  of  a  vanishing  autumn  cloud,  and  there 
the  smile  was  first  born  in  the  dream  of  a 
dew-washed  morning — the  smile  that  flickers 
on  baby's  lips  when  he  sleeps.    . 

The  sweet,  soft  freshness  that  blooms  on 
baby's  limbs — does  anybody  know  where  it 


6  The  Crescent  Moon 

was  hidden  so  long?  Yes,  when  the  mother 
was  a  young  girl  it  lay  pervading  her  heart 
in  tender  and  silent  mystery  of  love — the 
sweet,  soft  freshness  that  has  bloomed  on 
baby's  limbs. 


Child-Poems 


BABY'S  WAY 

IF  baby  only  wanted  to,  he  could  fly  up  to 
heaven  this  moment. 
It   is   not   for   nothing   that  he   does   not 
leave  us. 

He  loves  to  rest  his  head  on  mother's  bosom, 
and  cannot  ever  bear  to  lose  sight  of  her. 

Baby  knows  all  manner  of  wise  words, 
though  few  on  earth  can  understand  their 
meaning. 

It  is  not  for  nothing  that  he  never  wants 
to  speak. 

The  one  thing  he  wants  is  to  learn  mother's 
words  from  mother's  lips.  That  is  why  he 
looks  so  innocent. 

Baby  had  a  heap  of  gold  and  pearls,  yet 
he  came  like  a  beggar  on  to  this  earth. 


8  The  Crescent  Moon 

It  is  not  for  nothing  he  came  in  such  a 
disguise. 

This  dear  little  naked  mendicant  pretends 
to  be  utterly  helpless,  so  that  he  may  beg 
for  mother's  wealth  of  love. 

Baby  was  so  free  from  every  tie  in  the  land 
of  the  tiny  crescent  moon. 

It  was  not  for  nothing  he  gave  up  his 
freedom. 

He  knows  that  there  is  room  for  endless 
joy  in  mother's  little  corner  of  a  heart,  and 
it  is  sweeter  far  than  hberty  to  be  caught 
and  pressed  in  her  dear  arms. 

Baby  never  knew  how  to  cry.  He  dwelt 
in  the  land  of  perfect  bliss. 

It  is  not  for  nothing  he  has  chosen  to  shed 
tears. 

Though  with  the  smile  of  his  dear  face  he 
draws  mother's  yearning  heart  to  him,  yet  his 
little  cries  over  tiny  troubles  weave  the  double 
bond  of  pity  and  love. 


Child-Poems  0 


THE  UNHEEDED  PAGEANT 

AH,  who  was  it  coloured  that  Httle  frock, 
my  child,  and  covered  your  sweet  limbs 
with  that  little  red  tunic? 

You  have  come  out  in  the  morning  to 
play  in  the  courtyard,  tottering  and  tumbhng 
as  you  run. 

But  who  was  it  coloured  that  little  frock, 
my  child? 

What  is  it  makes  you  laugh,  my  little  life- 
bud? 

Mother  smiles  at  you  standing  on  the 
threshold. 

She  claps  her  hands  and  her  bracelets 
jingle,  and  you  dance  with  your  bamboo 
stick  in  your  hand  like  a  tiny  little  shep- 
herd. 


10  The  Crescent  Moon 

But  what  is  it  makes  you  laugh,  my  little 
life-bud? 

O  beggar,  what  do  you  beg  for,  clinging 
to  your  mother's  neck  with  both  your 
hands? 

O  greedy  heart,  shall  I  pluck  the  world 
like  a  fruit  from  the  sky  to  place  it  on  your 
little  rosy  palm? 

O  beggar,  what  are  you  begging  for? 

The  wind  carries  away  in  glee  the  tinkhng 
of  your  anklet  bells. 

The  sun  smiles  and  watches  your  toilet. 

The  sky  watches  over  you  when  you  sleep 
in  your  mother's  arms,  and  the  morning 
comes  tiptoe  to  your  bed  and  kisses  your  eyes. 

The  wind  carries  away  in  glee  the  tinkling 
of  your  anklet  bells. 

The  fairy  mistress  of  dreams  is  coming 
towards  you,  flying  through  the  twilight  sky. 


Child-Poems  11 

The  world-mother  keeps  her  seat  by  you 
in  your  mother's  heart. 

He  who  plays  his  music  to  the  stars  is 
standing  at  your  window  with  his  flute. 

And  the  fairy  mistress  of  dreams  is  coming 
towards  you,  flying  through  the  twilight  sky. 


12  The  Crescent  Moon 


SLEEP-STEALER 

WHO  stole  sleep  from  baby*s  eyes?  I 
must  know. 

Clasping  her  pitcher  to  her  waist,  mother 
went  to  fetch  water  from  the  village  near  by. 

It  was  noon.  The  children's  playtime 
was  over;  the  ducks  in  the  pond  were 
silent. 

The  shepherd  boy  lay  asleep  under  the 
shadow  of  the  banyan  tree. 

The  crane  stood  grave  and  still  in  the  swamp 
near  the  mango  grove. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  Sleep-stealer  came 
and,  snatching  sleep  from  baby's  eyes,  flew 
away. 

When  mother  came  back  she  found  baby 
travelling  the  room  over  on  all  fours. 


Child-Poems  13 

Who  stole  sleep  from  our  baby's  eyes?  I 
must  know.  I  must  find  her  and  chain 
her  up. 

I  must  look  into  that  dark  cave,  where, 
through  boulders  and  scowling  stones,  trickles 
a  tiny  stream. 

I  must  search  in  the  drowsy  shade  of  the 
hdkula  grove,  where  pigeons  coo  in  their 
corner,  and  fairies'  anklets  tinkle  in  the  still- 
ness of  starry  nights. 

In  the  evening  I  will  peep  into  the  whisper- 
ing silence  of  the  bamboo  forest,  where  fire- 
flies squander  their  light,  and  will  ask  every 
creature  I  meet,  "Can  anybody  tell  me  where 
the  Sleep-stealer  lives?" 

Who  stole  sleep  from  baby's  eyes?  I  must 
know. 

Shouldn't  I  give  her  a  good  lesson  if  I  could 
only  catch  her  I 

I  would  raid  her  nest  and  see  where  she 
hoards  all  her  stolen  sleep. 


14  The  Crescent  Moon 

I  would  plunder  it  all,  and  carry  it  home. 

I  would  bind  her  two  wings  securely,  set 
her  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  then  let 
her  play  at  fishing  with  a  reed  among  the 
rushes  and  water-lilies. 

When  the  marketing  is  over  in  the  evening, 
and  the  village  children  sit  in  their  mothers' 
laps,  then  the  night  birds  will  mockingly  din 
her  ears  with: 

"Whose  sleep  will  you  steal  now?" 


/ 


■  ■  •  -          I 

i                                                                                   f  : 

m 


i?X 


'.A 


THE     BKCilNNINC;. 

From  a  drawing  by  Asit  Kumar  Haldar. 


Child-Poems  15 


THE  BEGINNING 

"TX  THERE  have  I  come  from,  where  did 

f  T  you  pick  me  up?"  the  baby  asked 
its  mother. 

She  answered  half  crying,  half  laughing, 
and  clasping  the  baby  to  her  breast, — 

"You  were  hidden  in  my  heart  as  its 
desire,  my  darling. 

You  were  in  the  dolls  of  my  childhood's 
games;  and  when  with  clay  I  made  the 
image  of  my  god  every  morning,  I  made  and 
unmade  you  then. 

You  were  enshrined  with  our  household 
deity,  in  his  worship  I  worshipped  you. 

In  all  my  hopes  and  my  loves,  in  my  life, 
in  the  life  of  my  mother  you  have  lived. 

In  the  lap  of  the  deathless  Spirit  who  rules 
our  home  you  have  been  nursed  for  ages. 


16  The  Crescent  Moon 

When  in  girlhood  my  heart  was  opening 
its  petals,  you  hovered  as  a  fragrance  about 
it. 

Your  tender  softness  bloomed  in  my  youth- 
ful limbs,  like  a  glow  in  the  sky  before  the 
sunrise. 

Heaven's  first  darling,  twin-bom  with  the 
morning  light,  you  have  floated  down  the 
stream  of  the  world's  life,  and  at  last  you 
have  stranded  on  my  heart. 

As  I  gaze  on  your  face,  mystery  over- 
whelms me;  you  who  belong  to  all  have 
become  mine. 

For  fear  of  losing  you  I  hold  you  tight  to 
my  breast.  What  magic  has  snared  the 
world's  treasure  in  these  slender  arms  of 
mine?" 


Child-Poems  17 


BABY'S  WORLD 

1WISH  I  could  take  a  quiet  corner  in  the 
heart  of  my  baby's  very  own  world. 
I  know  it  has  stars  that  talk  to  him,  and 
a  sky  that  stoops  down  to  his  face  to  amuse 
him  with  its  silly  clouds  and  rainbows. 

Those  who  make  believe  to  be  dumb,  and 
look  as  if  they  never  could  move,  come  creep- 
ing to  his  window  with  their  stories  and  with 
trays  crowded  with  bright  toys. 

I  wish  I  could  travel  by  the  road  that  crosses 
baby's  mind,  and  out  beyond  all  bounds ; 

Where  messengers  run  errands  for  no  cause 
between  the  kingdoms  of  kings  of  no  history ; 

Where  Reason  makes  kites  of  her  laws  and 
flies  them,  and  Truth  sets  Fact  free  from  its 
fetters. 


18  The  Crescent  Moon 


WHEN  AND  WHY 

WHEN  I  bring  you  coloured  toys,  my 
child,  I  understand  why  there  is  such 
a  play  of  colours  on  clouds,  on  water,  and 
why  flowers  are  painted  in  tints — when  I  give 
coloured  toys  to  you,  my  child. 

When  I  sing  to  make  you  dance,  I  truly 
know  why  there  is  music  in  leaves,  and  why 
waves  send  their  chorus  of  voices  to  the  heart 
of  the  listening  earth — when  I  sing  to  make 
you  dance. 

When  I  bring  sweet  things  to  your  greedy 
hands,  I  know  why  there  is  honey  in  the  cup 
of  the  flower,  and  why  fruits  are  secretly 
filled  with  sweet  juice — when  I  bring  sweet 
things  to  your  greedy  hands. 

When  I  kiss  your  face  to  make  you  smile, 
my  darling,  I  surely  understand  what  pleasure 


Child-Poems  19 

streams  from  the  sky  in  morning  light,  and 
what  delight  the  summer  breeze  brings  to  my 
body — ^when  I  kiss  you  to  make  you  smile. 


20  The  Crescent  Moon 


DEFAMATION 

WHY  are  those  tears  in  your  eyes,  my 
child? 

How  horrid  of  them  to  be  always  scolding 
you  for  nothing! 

You  have  stained  your  fingers  and  face 
with  ink  while  writing — ^is  that  why  they 
call  you  dirty? 

O,  fie  I  Would  they  dare  to  call  the  full 
moon  dirty  because  it  has  smudged  its  face 
with  ink? 

For  every  little  trifle  they  blame  you,  my 
child.  They  are  ready  to  find  fault  for 
nothing. 

You  tore  your  clothes  while  playing — is 
that  why  they  call  you  untidy? 

O,  fie  I    What  would  they  call  an  autumn 


Child-Poems  21 

morning    that    smiles    through    its    ragged 
clouds? 

Take  no  heed  of  what  they  say  to  you, 
my  child. 

They  make  a  long  list  of  your  misdeeds. 

Everybody  knows  how  you  love  sweet 
things — is  that  why  they  call  you  greedy? 

O,  fie!  What  then  would  they  call  us  who 
love  you? 


22  The  Crescent  Moon 


THE  JUDGE 

SAY  of  him  what  you  please,  but  I  know 
my  child's  failings. 

I  do  not  love  him  because  he  is  good,  but 
because  he  is  my  little  child. 

How  should  you  know  how  dear  he  can  be 
when  you  try  to  weigh  his  merits  against  his 
faults? 

When  I  must  punish  him  he  becomes  all  the 
more  a  part  of  my  being. 

When  I  cause  his  tears  to  come  my  heart 
weeps  with  him. 

I  alone  have  a  right  to  blame  and  punish, 
for  he  only  may  chastise  who  loves. 


Child-Poems  23 


PLAYTHINGS 

CHILD,  how  happy  you  are  sitting  in 
the  dust,  playing  with  a  broken  twig  all 
the  morning. 

I  smile  at  your  play  with  that  little  bit  of  a 
broken  twig. 

I  am  busy  with  my  accounts,  adding  up  fig- 
ures by  the  hour. 

Perhaps  you  glance  at  me  and  think, 
"What  a  stupid  game  to  spoil  your  morning 
with!" 

Child,  I  have  forgotten  the  art  of  being 
absorbed  in  sticks  and  mud-pies. 

I  seek  out  costly  playthings,  and  gather 
lumps  of  gold  and  silver. 

With  whatever  you  find  you  create  your 
glad  games,  I  spent  both  my  time  and 
my  strength  over  things  I  never  can  obtain. 


24  The  Crescent  Moon 

In  my  frail  canoe  I  struggle  to  cross  the 
sea  of  desire,  and  forget  that  I  too  am  playing 
a  game. 


Child-Poems  25 


THE  ASTRONOMER 

10NLY  said,  "When  in  the  evening  the 
round  full  moon  gets  entangled  among 
the  branches  of  that  Kadam,  tree,  couldn't 
somebody  catch  it?" 

But  dada^  laughed  at  me  and  said, 
"Baby,  you  are  the  silliest  child  I  have  ever 
known.  The  moon  is  ever  so  far  from  us, 
how  could  anybody  catch  it?" 

I  said,  "Dada,  how  foolish  you  are! 
When  mother  looks  out  of  her  window  and 
smiles  down  at  us  playing,  would  you  call  her 
far  away?" 

Still  dada  said,  "You  are  a  stupid  child! 
But,  baby,  where  could  you  find  a  net  big 
enough  to  catch  the  moon  with?" 

I  said,  "Surely  you  could  catch  it  with 
your  hands." 

*  Elder  brother. 


26  The  Crescent  Moon 

But  dada  laughed  and  said,  "You  are  the 
silliest  child  I  have  known.  If  it  came 
nearer,  you  would  see  how  big  the  moon  is." 

I  said,  "Dada,  what  nonsense  they  teach 
at  your  school !  When  mother  bends  her  face 
down  to  kiss  us  does  her  face  look  very  big?" 

But  still  dada  says,  "You  are  a  stupid 
ehild." 


Child-Poems  27 


CLOUDS  AND  WAVES 

MOTHER,  the  folk  who  live  up  in  the 
clouds  call  out  to  me — 

"We  play  from  the  time  we  wake  till  the 
day  ends. 

We  play  with  the  golden  dawn,  we  play 
with  the  silver  moon." 

I  ask,  "But,  how  am  I  to  get  up  to  you?" 

They  answer,  "Come  to  the  edge  of  the 
earth,  lift  up  your  hands  to  the  sky,  and  you 
will  be  taken  up  into  the  clouds." 

"My  mother  is  waiting  for  me  at  home," 
I  say.     "How  can  I  leave  her  and  come?" 

Then  they  smile  and  float  away. 

But  I  know  a  nicer  game  than  that,  mother. 

I  shall  be  the  cloud  and  you  the  moon. 

I  shall  cover  you  with  both  my  hands,  and 
our  house-top  will  be  the  blue  sky. 


28  The  Crescent  Moon 

The  folk  who  live  in  the  waves  call  out  to 
me — 

"We  sing  from  morning  till  night;  on 
and  on  we  travel  and  know  not  where  we 
pass." 

I  ask,  "But,  how  am  I  to  join  you?" 

They  tell  me,  "Come  to  the  edge  of  the 
shore  and  stand  with  your  eyes  tight  shut, 
and  you  will  be  carried  out  upon  the  waves." 

I  say,  "My  mother  always  wants  me  at 
home  in  the  evening — ^how  can  I  leave  her 
and  go?" 

Then  they  smile,  dance  and  pass  by. 

But  I  know  a  better  game  than  that. 

I  will  be  the  waves  and  you  will  be  a 
strange  shore. 

I  shall  roll  on  and  on  and  on,  and  break 
upon  your  lap  with  laughter. 

And  no  one  in  the  world  will  know  where 
we  both  are. 


Child-Poems  29 


THE   CHAMPA   FLOWER 

SUPPOSING  I  became  a  champa  flower, 
just  for  fun,  and  grew  on  a  branch 
high  up  that  tree,  and  shook  in  the  wind  with 
laughter  and  danced  upon  the  newly  budded 
leaves,  would  you  know  me,  mother? 

You  would  call,  "Baby,  where  are  you?" 
and  I  should  laugh  to  myself  and  keep  quite 
quiet. 

I  should  slyly  open  my  petals  and  watch 
you  at  your  work. 

When  after  your  bath,  with  wet  hair 
spread  on  your  shoulders,  you  walked  through 
the  shadow  of  the  champa  tree  to  the  little 
court  where  you  say  your  prayers,  you 
would  notice  the  scent  of  the  flower,  but  not 
know  that  it  came  from  me. 

When  after  the  midday  meal  you  sat  at  the 


30  The  Crescent  Moon 

window  reading  Ramayana,  and  the  tree's 
shadow  fell  over  your  hair  and  your  lap,  I 
should  fling  my  wee  httle  shadow  on  to  the 
page  of  your  book,  just  where  you  were 
reading. 

But  would  you  guess  that  it  was  the  tiny 
shadow  of  your  little  child? 

When  in  the  evening  you  went  to  the  cow- 
shed with  the  lighted  lamp  in  your  hand,  I 
should  suddenly  drop  on  to  the  earth  again 
and  be  your  own  baby  once  more,  and  beg 
you  to  tell  me  a  story. 

"Where  have  you  been,  you  naughty 
chHd?" 

"I  won't  tell  you,  mother."  That's  what 
you  and  I  would  say  then. 


FAIRYLAND. 

hrom  a  draiving  by  Ahaninttranath  Tagore. 


Child-Poems  31 


FAIRYLAND 

IF  people  came  to  know  where  my  king's 
palace  is,  it  would  vanish  into  the  air. 

The  walls  are  of  white  silver  and  the  roof 
of  shining  gold. 

The  queen  lives  in  a  palace  with  seven 
courtyards,  and  she  wears  a  jewel  that  cost  all 
the  wealth  of  seven  kingdoms. 

But,  let  me  tell  you,  mother,  in  a  whisper, 
where  my  king's  palace  is. 

It  is  at  the  corner  of  our  terrace  where  the 
pot  of  the  tulsi  plant  stands. 

The  princess  lies  sleeping  on  the  far-away 
shore  of  the  seven  impassable  seas. 

There  is  none  in  the  world  who  can  find 
her  but  myself. 

She  has  bracelets  on  her  arms  and  pearl 


32  The  Crescent  Moon 

drops  in  her  ears;  her  hair  sweeps  down 
upon  the  floor. 

She  will  wake  when  I  touch  her  with  my 
magic  wand,  and  jewels  will  fall  from  her 
lips  when  she  smiles. 

But  let  me  whisper  in  your  ear,  mother; 
she  is  there  in  the  corner  of  our  terrace 
where  the  pot  of  the  tulsi  plant  stands. 

When  it  is  time  for  you  to  go  to  the  river 
for  your  bath,  step  up  to  that  terrace  on  the 
roof. 

I  sit  on  the  corner  where  the  shadows  of 
the  walls  meet  together. 

Only  puss  is  allowed  to  come  with  me,  for 
she  knows  where  the  barber  in  the  story 
lives. 

But  let  me  whisper,  mother,  in  your  ear 
where  the  barber  in  the  story  lives. 

It  is  at  the  corner  of  the  terrace  where  the 
pot  of  the  tulsi  plant  stands. 


Child-Poems  33 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  EXILE 

MOTHER,  the  light  has  grown  grey  in 
the  sky;  I  do  not  know  what  the 
time  is. 

There  is  no  fun  in  my  play,  so  I  have  come 
to  you.    It  is  Saturday,  our  holiday. 

Leave  off  your  work,  mother;  sit  here  by 
the  window  and  tell  me  where  the  desert  of 
Tepantar  in  the  fairy  tale  is? 

The  shadow  of  the  rains  has  covered  the 
day  from  end  to  end. 

The  fierce  lightning  is  scratching  the  sky 
with  its  nails. 

When  the  clouds  rumble  and  it  thunders,  I 
love  to  be  afraid  in  my  heart  and  cling  to  you. 

When  the  heavy  rain  patters  for  hours  on 
the  bamboo  leaves,  and  our  windows  shake 


84  The  Crescent  Moon 

and  rattle  at  the  gusts  of  wind,  I  like  to  sit 
alone  in  the  room,  mother,  with  you,  and  hear 
you  talk  about  the  desert  of  Tepantar  in  the 
fairy  tale. 

Where  is  it,  mother,  on  the  shore  of  what 
sea,  at  the  foot  of  what  hills,  in  the  kingdom 
of  what  king? 

There  are  no  hedges  there  to  mark  the 
fields,  no  footpath  across  it  by  which  the 
villagers  reach  their  village  in  the  evening, 
or  the  woman  who  gathers  dry  sticks  in 
the  forest  can  bring  her  load  to  the  market. 
With  patches  of  yellow  grass  in  the  sand 
and  only  one  tree  where  the  pair  of  wise 
old  birds  have  their  nest,  lies  the  desert  of 
Tepantar. 

I  can  imagine  how,  on  just  such  a  cloudy 
day,  the  young  son  of  the  king  is  riding  alone 
on  a  grey  horse  through  the  desert,  in  search  of 
the  princess  who  lies  imprisoned  in  the  giant's 
palace  across  that  unknown  water. 


Child-Poems  85 

When  the  haze  of  the  rain  comes  down  in 
the  distant  sky,  and  lightning  starts  up  like 
a  sudden  fit  of  pain,  does  he  remember  his 
unhappy  mother,  abandoned  by  the  king, 
sweeping  the  cow-stall  and  wiping  her  eyes, 
while  he  rides  through  the  desert  of  Tepantar 
in  the  fairy  tale? 

See,  mother,  it  is  almost  dark  before  the  day 
is  over,  and  there  are  no  travellers  yonder  on 
the  village  road. 

The  shepherd  boy  has  gone  home  early 
from  the  pasture,  and  men  have  left  their 
fields  to  sit  on  mats  under  the  eaves  of  their 
huts,  watching  the  scowling  clouds. 

Mother,  I  have  left  all  my  books  on  the 
shelf — do  not  ask  me  to  do  my  lessons 
now. 

When  I  grow  up  and  am  big  like  my  father, 
I  shall  learn  all  that  must  be  learnt. 

But  just  for  to-day,  tell  me,  mother,  where 
the  desert  of  Tepantar  in  the  fairy  tale  is? 


86  The  Crescent  Moon 


THE  RAINY  DAY 

SULLEN  clouds  are  gathering  fast  over 
the  black  fringe  of  the  forest. 
O  child,  do  not  go  out  I 
The  palm  trees  in  a  row  by  the  lake  are 
smiting  their  heads  against  the  dismal  sky; 
the  crows  with  their  draggled  wings  are  silent 
on  the  tamarind  branches,  and  the  eastern 
bank  of  the  river  is  haunted  by  a  deepening 
gloom. 

Our  cow  is  lowing  loud,  tied  at  the  fence. 

O  child,  wait  here  till  I  bring  her  into  the 
stall. 

Men  have  crowded  into  the  flooded  field  to 
catch  the  fishes  as  they  escape  from  the  over- 
flowing ponds;  the  rain  water  is  running  in 
rills  through  the  narrow  lanes  like  a  laughing 


Child-Poems  37 

boy  who  has  run  away  from  his  mother  to 
tease  her. 

Listen,  someone  is  shouting  for  the  boat- 
man at  the  ford. 

O  child,  the  daylight  is  dim,  and  the  crossing 
at  the  ferry  is  closed. 

The  sky  seems  to  ride  fast  upon  the  madly- 
rushing  rain;  the  water  in  the  river  is  loud 
and  impatient;  women  have  hastened  home 
early  from  the  Ganges  with  their  filled 
pitchers. 

The  evening  lamps  must  be  made  ready. 

O  child,  do  not  go  outl 

The  road  to  the  market  is  desolate,  the 
lane  to  the  river  is  slippery.  The  wind  is 
roaring  and  struggling  among  the  bamboo 
branches  hke  a  wild  beast  tangled  in  a  net. 


88  The  Crescent  Moon 


PAPER  BOATS 

DAY  by  day  I  float  my  paper  boats  one 
by  one  down  the  running  stream. 

In  big  black  letters  I  write  my  name  on 
them  and  the  name  of  the  village  where  I  live. 

I  hope  that  someone  in  some  strange  land 
will  find  them  and  know  who  I  am. 

I  load  my  little  boats  with  shiuli  flowers 
from  our  garden,  and  hope  that  these  blooms 
of  the  dawn  will  be  carried  safely  to  land  in 
the  night. 

I  launch  my  paper  boats  and  look  up  into 
the  sky  and  see  the  little  clouds  setting  their 
white  bulging  sails. 

I  know  not  what  playmate  of  mine  in  the 
sky  sends  them  down  the  air  to  race  with  my 
boats ! 

When  night  comes  I  bury  my  face  in  my 


PAPER   BOAT. 

From  a  draiuing  by  Surendranath  Ganguli. 


Child-Poems  39 

arms  and  dream  that  my  paper  boats  float  on 
and  on  under  the  midnight  stars. 

The  fairies  of  sleep  are  saiHng  in  them,  and 
the  lading  is  their  baskets  full  of  dreams. 


40  The  Crescent  Moon 


THE  SAILOR 

THE  boat  of  the  boatman  Madhu  is 
moored  at  the  wharf  of  Raj  gun j. 

It  is  uselessly  laden  with  jute,  and  has  been 
lying  there  idle  for  ever  so  long. 

If  he  would  only  lend  me  his  boat,  I  should 
man  her  with  a  hundred  oars,  and  hoist  sails, 
five  or  six  or  seven. 

I  should  never  steer  her  to  stupid  markets. 

I  should  sail  the  seven  seas  and  the  thirteen 
rivers  of  fairyland. 

But,  mother,  you  won't  weep  for  me  in  a 
corner. 

I  am  not  going  into  the  forest  like  Rama- 
chandra  to  come  back  only  after  fourteen 
years. 


I  Child-Poems  41 

I  shall  become  the  prince  of  the  story,  and 
fill  my  boat  with  whatever  I  like. 

I  shall  take  my  friend  Ashu  with  me.  We 
shall  sail  merrily  across  the  seven  seas  and 
the  thirteen  rivers  of  fairyland. 

We  shall  set  sail  in  the  early  morning 
light. 

When  at  noontide  you  are  bathing  at  the 
pond,  we  shall  be  in  the  land  of  a  strange 
king. 

We  shall  pass  the  ford  of  Tirpurni,  and 
leave  behind  us  the  desert  of  Tepantar. 

When  we  come  back  it  will  be  getting  dark, 
and  I  shall  tell  you  of  all  that  we  have  seen. 

I  shall  cross  the  seven  seas  and  the  thirteen 
rivers  of  fairyland. 


42  The  Crescent  Moon 


THE  FURTHER  BANK 

I  LONG  to  go  over  there  to  the  further 
bank  of  the  river, 

Where  those  boats  are  tied  to  the  bamboo 
poles  in  a  line ; 

Where  men  cross  over  in  their  boats  in  the 
morning  with  ploughs  on  their  shoulders  to 
till  their  far-away  fields ; 

Where  the  cowherds  make  their  lowing 
cattle  swim  across  to  the  riverside  pasture; 

Whence  they  all  come  back  home  in  the 
evening,  leaving  the  jackals  to  howl  in  the 
island  overgrown  with  weeds. 

Mother,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  should  hke  to 
become  the  boatman  of  the  ferry  when  I  am 
grown  up. 

They  say  there  are  strange  pools  hidden 
behind  that  high  bank. 


Child-Poems  48 

Where  flocks  of  wild  ducks  come  when  the 
rains  are  over,  and  thick  reeds  grow  round 
the  margins  where  waterbirds  lay  their 
eggs; 

Where  snipes  with  their  dancing  tails 
stamp  their  tiny  footprints  upon  the  clean 
soft  mud ; 

Where  in  the  evening  the  tall  grasses  crested 
with  white  flowers  invite  the  moonbeam  to  float 
upon  their  waves. 

Mother,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  should  like  to 
become  the  boatman  of  the  ferryboat  when  I 
am  grown  up. 

I  shall  cross  and  cross  back  from  bank  to 
bank,  and  all  the  boys  and  girls  of  the  village 
will  wonder  at  me  while  they  are  bathing. 

When  the  sun  cUmbs  the  mid  sky  and 
morning  wears  on  to  noon,  I  shall  come 
running  to  you,  saying,  "Mother,  I  am 
hungry!" 

When  the  day  is   done  and  the  shadows 


44  The  Crescent  Moon 

cower  under  the  trees,  I  shall  come  back  in 
the  dusk. 

I  shall  never  go  away  from  you  into  the 
town  to  work  like  father. 

Mother,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  should  like  to 
become  the  boatman  of  the  ferryboat  when  I 
am  grown  up. 


Child-Poems  45 


THE  FLOWER-SCHOOL 

WHEN  storm  clouds  rumble  in  the  sky 
and  June  showers  come  down, 
The  moist  east  wind  comes  marching  over 
the  heath  to  blow  its  bagpipes  among  the 
bamboos. 

Then  crowds  of  flowers  come  out  of  a  sud- 
den, from  nobody  knows  where,  and  dance 
upon  the  grass  in  wild  glee. 

Mother,  I  really  think  the  flowers  go  to 
school  underground. 

They  do  their  lessons  with  doors  shut,  and 
if  they  want  to  come  out  to  play  before  it  is 
time,  their  master  makes  them  stand  in  a 
comer. 

When  the  rains  come  they  have  their 
holidays. 


♦ 


46  The  Crescent  Moon 

Branches  clash  together  in  the  forest,  and 
the  leaves  rustle  in  the  wild  wind,  the  thunder- 
clouds clap  their  giant  hands  and  the  flower 
children  rush  out  in  dresses  of  pink  and  yellow 
and  white. 

Do  you  know,  mother,  their  home  is  in  the 
sky,  where  the  stars  are. 

Haven*t  you  seen  how  eager  they  are  to 
get  there?  Don't  you  know  why  they  are  in 
such  a  hurry? 

Of  course,  I  can  guess  to  whom  they  raise 
their  arms:  they  have  their  mother  as  1  have 
my  own. 


THE    MERCHANT. 
From  a  drawing  by  Asit  Kumar  Ualdar. 


Child-Poems  47 


THE  MERCHANT 

IMAGINE,  mother,  that  you  are  to  stay  at 
home  and  I  am  to  travel  into  strange 
lands. 

Imagine  that  my  boat  is  ready  at  the  land- 
ing fully  laden. 

Now  think  well,  mother,  before  you  say 
what  I  shall  bring  for  you  when  I  come 
back. 

Mother,  do  you  want  heaps  and  heaps  of 
gold? 

There,  by  the  banks  of  golden  streams, 
fields  are  full  of  golden  harvest. 

And  in  the  shade  of  the  forest  path  the 
golden  champa  flowers  drop  on  the  ground. 

I  will  gather  them  all  for  you  in  many 
hundred  baskets. 


48  The  Crescent  Moon 

Mother,  do  you  want  pearls  big  as  the  rain- 
drops of  autumn? 

I  shall  cross  to  the  pearl  island  shore. 

There  in  the  early  morning  light  pearls 
tremble  on  the  meadow  flowers,  pearls  drop 
on  the  grass,  and  pearls  are  scattered  on  the 
sand  in  spray  by  the  wild  sea- waves. 

My  brother  shall  have  a  pair  of  horses  with 
wings  to  fly  among  the  clouds. 

For  father  I  shall  bring  a  magic  pen  that, 
without  his  knowing,  will  write  of  itself. 

For  you,  mother,  I  must  have  the  casket 
and  jewel  that  cost  seven  kings  their  king- 
doms. 


Child-Poems  49 


SYMPATHY 

IF  I  were  only  a  little  puppy,  not  your  baby, 
mother  dear,  would  you  say  "No"  to  me 
if  I  tried  to  eat  from  your  dish? 

Would  you  drive  me  off,  saying  to  me,  "Get 
away,  you  naughty  little  puppy?'* 

Then  go,  mother,  go!  I  will  never  come 
to  you  when  you  call  me,  and  never  let  you 
feed  me  any  more. 

If  I  were  only  a  little  green  parrot,  and 
not  your  baby,  mother  dear,  would  you  keep 
me  chained  lest  I  should  fly  away? 

Would  you  shake  your  finger  at  me  and 
say,  "What  an  imgrateful  wretch  of  a  bird  I 
It  is  gnawing  at  its  chain  day  and  night?" 

Then,  go,  mother,  go!  I  will  run  away 
into  the  woods;  I  will  never  let  you  take  me 
in  your  arms  again. 


50  The  Crescent  Moon 


VOCATION 

WHEN  the  gong  sounds  ten  in  the  morn- 
ing and  I  walk  to  school  by  our  lane, 

Everyday  I  meet  the  hawker  crying, 
"Bangles,  crystal  bangles  1" 

There  is  nothing  to  hurry  him  on,  there  is 
no  road  he  must  take,  no  place  he  must  go 
to,  no  time  when  he  must  come  home. 

I  wish  I  were  a  hawker,  spending  my 
day  in  the  road,  crying,  "Bangles,  crystal 
bangles  1" 

When  at  four  in  the  afternoon  I  come  back 
from  the  school. 

I  can  see  through  the  gate  of  that  house 
the  gardener  digging  the  ground. 

He  does  what  he  Hkes  with  his  spade,  he 
soils  his  clothes  with  dust,  noboby  takes  him 


Child-Poems  61 

to  task  if  he  gets  baked  in  the  sun  or  get;^ 
wet. 

I  wish  I  were  a  gardener  digging  away  at 
the  garden  with  nobody  to  stop  me  from 
digging. 

Just  as  it  gets  dark  in  the  evening  and  my 
mother  sends  me  to  bed, 

I  can  see  through  my  open  window  the 
watchman  walking  up  and  down. 

The  lane  is  dark  and  lonely  and  the  street- 
lamp  stands  like  a  giant  with  one  red  eye  in 
its  head. 

The  watchman  swings  his  lantern  and 
walks  with  his  shadow  at  his  side,  and  never 
once  goes  to  bed  in  his  life. 

I  wish  I  were  a  watchman  walking  the 
streets  all  night,  chasing  the  shadows  with  my 
lantern. 


52  The  Crescent  Moon 


SUPERIOR 

MOTHER,  your  baby  is  silly  1  She  is  so 
absurdly  childish! 

She  does  not  know  the  difference  between 
the  lights  in  the  streets  and  the  stars. 

When  we  play  at  eating  with  pebbles,  she 
thinks  they  are  real  food,  and  tries  to  put 
them  into  her  mouth. 

When  I  open  a  book  before  her  and  ask 
her  to  learn  her  a,  b,  c,  she  tears  the  leaves 
with  her  hands  and  roars  for  joy  at  noth- 
ing; this  is  your  baby's  way  of  doing  her 
lesson. 

When  I  shake  my  head  at  her  in  anger  and 
scold  her  and  call  her  naughty,  she  laughs  and 
thinks  it  great  fun. 

Everybody  knows  that  father  is  away,  but, 
if  in  play  I  call  aloud  "Father,"  she  looks 


Child-Poems  53 

about  her  in  excitement  and  thinks  that 
father  is  near. 

When  I  hold  my  class  with  the  donkeys 
that  our  washerman  brings  to  carry  away  the 
clothes  and  I  warn  her  that  I  am  the  school- 
master, she  will  scream  for  no  reason  and  call 
me  dada.^ 

Your  baby  wants  to  catch  the  moon.  She 
is  so  funny ;  she  calls  Ganesh  ^  Ganush. 

Mother,  your  baby  is  silly,  she  is  so 
absurdly  childish! 

'  Elder  brother. 

2  Ganesh,  a  common    name   in    India,    also   that    of    the    god 
with    the   elephant's    head. 


54  The  Crescent  Moon 


THE  LITTLE  BIG  MAN 

I  AM  small  because  I  am  a  little  child.  I 
shall  be  big  when  I  am  as  old  as  my 
father  is. 

My  teacher  will  come  and  say,  "It  is  late, 
bring  your  slate  and  your  books." 

I  shall  tell  him,  "Do  you  not  know  I  am 
as  big  as  father?  And  I  must  not  have 
lessons  any  more." 

My  master  will  wonder  and  say,  "He  can 
leave  his  books  if  he  likes,  for  he  is  grown  up." 

I  shall  dress  myself  and  walk  to  the  fair 
where  the  crowd  is  thick. 

My  uncle  will  come  rushing  up  to  me  and 
say,  "You  will  get  lost,  my  boy;  let  me  carry 

you." 

I  shall  answer,  "Can't  you  see,  uncle,  I  am 


Child-Poems  55 

as  big   as   father?     I   must   go  to  the  fair 
alone." 

Uncle  will  say,  "Yes,  he  can  go  wherever 
he  likes,  for  he  is  grown  up." 

Mother  will  come  from  her  bath  when  I 
am  giving  money  to  my  nurse,  for  I 
shall  know  how  to  open  the  box  with  my 
key. 

Mother  will  say,  "What  are  you  about, 
naughty  child?" 

I  shall  tell  her,  "Mother,  don't  you  know, 
I  am  as  big  as  father,  and  I  must  give  silver 
to  my  nurse." 

Mother  will  say  to  herself,  "He  can  give 
money  to  whom  he  likes,  for  he  is  grown 
up." 

In  the  holiday  time  in  October  father  will 
come  home  and,  thinking  that  I  am  still  a 
baby,  will  bring  for  me  from  the  town  little 
shoes  and  small  silken  frocks. 


56  The  Crescent  Moon 

I  shall  say,  "Father,  give  them  to  my 
dada,^  for  I  am  as  big  as  you  are." 

Father  will  think  and  say,  "He  can  buy 
his  own  clothes  if  he  Ukes,  for  he  is  grown  up." 

1  Elder  brother. 


Child-Poems  57 


TWELVE  O'CLOCK 

MOTHER,  I  do  want  to  leave  off  my 
lessons  now.  I  have  been  at  my  book 
all  the  morning. 

You  say  it  is  only  twelve  o'clock.  Sup- 
pose it  isn't  any  later;  can't  you  ever  think 
it  is  afternoon  when  it  is  only  twelve  o'clock? 

I  can  easily  imagine  now  that  the  sun  has 
reached  the  edge  of  that  rice-field,  and  the 
old  fisher-woman  is  gathering  herbs  for  her 
supper  by  the  side  of  the  pond. 

I  can  just  shut  my  eyes  and  think  that  the 
shadows  are  growing  darker  under  the  madar 
tree,  and  the  water  in  the  pond  looks  shiny 
black. 

If  twelve  o'clock  can  come  in  the  night, 
why  can't  the  night  come  when  it  is  twelve 
o'clock? 


58  The  Crescent  Moon 


AUTHORSHIP 

YOU  say  that  father  writes  a  lot  of 
books,  but  what  he  writes  I  don't 
understand. 

He  was  reading  to  you  all  the  evening,  but 
could  you  really  make  out  what  he  meant? 

What  nice  stories,  mother,  you  can  tell  us  I 
Why  can't  father  write  like  that,  I  wonder? 

Did  he  never  hear  from  his  own  mother 
stories  of  giants  and  fairies  and  princesses? 

Has  he  forgotten  them  all? 

Often  when  he  gets  late  for  his  bath  you 
have  to  go  and  fcall  him  an  hundred  times. 

You  wait  and  keep  his  dishes  warm  for 
him,  but  he  goes  on  writing  and  forgets. 

Father  always  plays  at  making  books. 


Child-Poems  69 

If  ever  I  go  to  play  in  father's  room,  you 
come  and  call  me,  "what  a  naughty  child!" 

If  I  make  the  slightest  noise,  you  say, 
"Don't  you  see  that  father's  at  his  work?" 

What's  the  fun  of  always  writing  and 
writing? 

When  I  take  up  father's  pen  or  pencil  and 
write  upon  his  book  just  as  he  does, — a,  b,  c, 
d,  e,  f,  g,  h,  i, — why  do  you  get  cross  with 
me,  then,  mother? 

You  never  say  a  word  when  father  writes. 

When  my  father  wastes  such  heaps  of 
paper,  mother,  you  don't  seem  to  mind  at 
aU. 

But  if  I  take  only  one  sheet  to  make  a  boat 
with,  you  say,  "Child,  how  troublesome  you 
are!" 

What  do  you  think  of  father's  spoiling 
sheets  and  sheets  of  paper  with  black  marks 
all  over  on  both  sides? 


60  The  Crescent  Moon 


THE  WICKED  POSTMAN 

WHY  do  you  sit  there  on  the  floor  so 
quiet  and  silent,  tell  me,  mother  dear? 

The  rain  is  coming  in  tlirough  the  open  win- 
dow, making  you  all  wet,  and  you  don't 
mind  it. 

Do  you  hear  the  gong  striking  four?  It 
is  time  for  my  brother  to  come  home  from 
school. 

What  has  happened  to  you  that  you  look 
so  strange? 

Haven't  you  got  a  letter  from  father 
to-day? 

I  saw  the  postman  bringing  letters  in  his 
bag  for  almost  everybody  in  the  town. 

Only,  father's  letters  he  keeps  to  read  him- 
self. I  am  sure  the  postman  is  a  wicked 
man. 


Child-Poems  61 

But  don't  be  unhappy  about  that,  mother 
dear. 

To-morrow  is  market  day  in  the  next  vil- 
lage. You  ask  your  maid  to  buy  some  pens 
and  papers. 

I  myself  will  write  all  father's  letters;  you 
will  not  find  a  single  mistake. 

I  shall  write  from  A  right  up  to  K. 

But,  mother,  why  do  you  smile? 

You  don't  believe  that  I  can  write  as  nicely 
as  father  does! 

But  I  shall  rule  my  paper  carefully,  and 
write  all  the  letters  beautifully  big. 

When  I  finish  my  writing,  do  you  think  I 
shall  be  so  foolish  as  father  and  drop  it  into 
the  horrid  postman's  bag? 

I  shall  bring  it  to  you  myself  without  wait- 
ing, and  letter  by  letter  help  you  to  read  my 
writing. 

I  know  the  postman  does  not  like  to  give 
you  the  really  nice  letters. 


62  The  Crescent  Moon 


THE  HERO 

MOTHER,  let  us  imagine  we  are  travel- 
ling and  passing  through  a  strange 
and  dangerous  country. 

You  are  riding  in  a  palanquin  and  I  am 
trotting  by  you  on  a  red  horse. 

It  is  evening  and  the  sun  goes  down.  The 
waste  of  Joradighi  lies  wan  and  grey  before 
us.    The  land  is  desolate  and  barren. 

You  are  frightened  and  thinking — "I  know 
not  where  we  have  come  to." 

I  say  to  you,  "Mother,  do  not  be  afraid." 

The  meadow  is  prickly  with  spiky  grass, 
and  through  it  runs  a  narrow  broken  path. 

There  are  no  cattle  to  be  seen  in  the 
wide  field;  they  have  gone  to  their  village 
stalls. 


THE     HERO. 

From  a  drawing  by  Nandalall  Base. 


Child-Poems  68 

It  grows  dark  and  dim  on  the  land  and  sky, 
and  we  cannot  tell  where  we  are  going. 

Suddenly  you  call  me  and  ask  me  in 
a  whisper,  "What  light  is  that  near  the 
bank?" 

Just  then  there  bursts  out  a  fearful  yell, 
and  figures  come  running  towards  us. 

You  sit  crouched  in  your  palanquin  and 
repeat  the  names  of  the  gods  in  prayer. 

The  bearers,  shaking  in  terror,  hide  them- 
selves in  the  thorny  bush. 

I  shout  to  you,  "Don't  be  afraid,  mother, 
I  am  here." 

With  long  sticks  in  their  hands  and  hair 
all  wild  about  their  heads,  they  come  nearer 
and  nearer. 

I  shout,  "Have  a  care  I  you  villains!  One 
step  more  and  you  are  dead  men." 

They  give  another  terrible  yell  and  rush 
forward. 


j84i  The  Crescent  Moon 

You  clutch  my  hand  and  say,  "Dear  boy, 
for  heaven's  sake,  keep  away  from  them." 
I  say,  "Mother,  just  you  watch  me." 

Then  I  spur  my  horse  for  a  wild  gallop,  and 
my  sword  and  buckler  clash  against  each 
other. 

The  fight  becomes  so  fearful,  mother,  that 
it  would  give  you  a  cold  shudder  could  you 
see  it  from  your  palanquin. 

Many  of  them  fly,  and  a  great  number  are 
cut  to  pieces. 

I  know  you  are  thinking,  sitting  all  by 
yourself,  that  your  boy  must  be  dead  by  this 
time. 

But  I  come  to  you  all  stained  with 
blood,  and  say,  "Mother,  the  fight  is  over 
now." 

You  come  out  and  kiss  me,  pressing  me  to 
your  heart,  and  you  say  to  yourself, 

"I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  if  I  hadn't 
my  boy  to  escort  me." 


Child-Poems  65 

A  thousand  useless  things  happen  day  after 
day,  and  why  couldn't  such  a  thing  come  true 
by  chance? 

It  would  be  like  a  story  in  a  book. 

My  brother  would  say,  "Is  it  possible?  I 
always  thought  he  was  so  delicate  I" 

Our  village  people  would  all  say  in  amaze- 
ment, "Was  it  not  lucky  that  the  boy  was  with 
his  mother?" 


66  The  Crescent  Moon 


THE  END 

IT  is  time  for  me  to  go,  mother;  I  am  going. 
When  in  the  paling  darkness  of  the  lonely 
dawn  you  stretch  out  your  arms  for  your  baby 
in  the  bed,  I  shall  say,  "Baby  is  not  there!" 
— ^mother,  I  am  going. 

I  shall  become  a  delicate  draught  of  air 
and  caress  you;  and  I  shall  be  ripples  in  the 
water  when  you  bathe,  and  kiss  you  and  kiss 
you  again. 

In  the  gusty  night  when  the  rain  patters 
on  the  leaves  you  will  hear  my  whisper  in 
your  bed,  and  my  laughter  will  flash  with  the 
lightning  through  the  open  window  into  your 
room. 

If  you  lie  awake,  thinking  of  your  baby  till 
late  into  the  night,  I  shall  sing  to  you  from 
the  stars,  "Sleep,  mother,  sleep." 


Child-Poems  67j 

On  the  straying  moonbeams  I  shall  steal 
over  yom*  bed,  and  lie  upon  your  bosom  while 
you  sleep. 

I  shall  become  a  dream,  and  through  the 
little  opening  of  your  eyelids  I  shall  slip  into 
the  depths  of  your  sleep,  and  when  you  wake 
up  and  look  round  startled,  like  a  twinkling 
firefly  I  shall  flit  out  into  the  darkness. 

When,  on  the  great  festival  of  puja,  the 
neighbom*s'  children  come  and  play  about  the 
house,  I  shall  melt  into  the  music  of  the  flute 
and  throb  in  your  heart  all  day. 

Dear  auntie  will  come  with  |7ttja-presents 
and  will  ask,  "Where  is  our  baby,  sister?" 
Mother,  you  will  tell  her  softly,  "He  is  in 
the  pupils  of  my  eyes,  he  is  in  my  body  and 
in  my  soul." 


68  The'  Crescent  Moon 


THE  RECALL 

THE  night  was  dark  when  she  went  away, 
and  they  slept. 
The  night  is  dark  now,  and  I  call  for  her, 
"Come  back,  my  darling;  the  world  is  asleep; 
and  no  one  would  know,  if  you  came  for  a 
moment  while  stars  are  gazing  at  stars." 

She  went  away  when  the  trees  were  in  bud 
and  the  spring  was  young. 

Now  the  flowers  are  in  high  bloom  and  I 
call,  "Come  back,  my  darHng.  The  children 
gather  and  scatter  flowers  in  reckless  sport. 
And  if  you  come  and  take  one  little  blossom 
no  one  will  miss  it." 

Those  that  used  to  play  are  playing  still, 
so  spendthrift  is  life. 


Child-Poems  69 

I  listen  to  their  chatter  and  call,  "Come 
back,  my  darling,  for  mother's  heart  is  full 
to  the  brim  with  love,  and  if  you  come  to 
snatch  only  one  little  kiss  from  her  no  one  will 
grudge  it.'* 


70  The  Crescent  Moon 


THE  FIRST  JASMINES 

AH,  these  jasmines,  these  white  jas- 
mines! 

I  seem  to  remember  the  first  day  when  I 
filled  my  hands  with  these  jasmines,  these  white 
jasmines. 

I  have  loved  the  smilight,  the  sky  a*nd  the 
green  earth ; 

I  have  heard  the  liquid  murmur  of  the  river 
through  the  darkness  of  midnight; 

Autumn  sunsets  have  come  to  me  at  the 
bend  of  a  road  in  the  lonely  waste,  like  a  bride 
raising  her  veil  to  accept  her  lover. 

Yet  my  memory  is  still  sweet  with  the  first 
white  jasmines  that  I  held  in  my  hand  when  I 
was  a  child. 

Many  a  glad  day  has  come  in  my  life,  and 


Child-Poems  71 

I  have  laughed  with  merrymakers  on  festival 
nights. 

On  grey  mornings  of  rain  I  have  crooned 
many  an  idle  song. 

I  have  worn  round  my  neck  the  evening 
wreath  of  hdkulas  woven  by  the  hand  of 
love. 

Yet  my  heart  is  sweet  with  the  memory 
of  the  first  fresh  jasmines  that  filled  my  hands 
when  I  was  a  child. 


72  The  Crescent  Moon 


THE  BANYAN  TREE 

OYOU  shaggy-headed  banyan  tree 
standing  on  the  bank  of  the  pond,  have 
you  forgotten  the  Httle  child,  hke  the  birds  that 
have  nested  in  your  branches  and  left  you? 

Do  you  not  remember  how  he  sat  at  the 
window  and  wondered  at  the  tangle  of  your 
roots  that  plunged  underground? 

The  women  would  come  to  fill  their  jars  in 
the  pond,  and  your  huge  black  shadow  would 
wriggle  on  the  water  hke  sleep  strugghng  to 
wake  up. 

SunUght  danced  on  the  ripples  hke  restless 
tiny  shuttles  weaving  golden  tapestry. 

Two  ducks  swam  by  the  weedy  margin 
above  their  shadows,  and  the  child  would  sit 
still  and  think. 

He    longed   to    be    the    wind    and    blow 


Child-Poems  73 

through  your  rustling  branches,  to  be  your 
shadow  and  lengthen  with  the  day  on  the 
water,  to  be  a  bird  and  perch  on  your  topmost 
twig,  and  to  float  like  those  ducks  among  the 
weeds  and  shadows. 


174  The  Crescent  Moon 


BENEDICTION 

BLESS  this  little  heart,  this  white  soul 
that  has  won  the  kiss  of  heaven  for 
our  earth. 

He  loves  the  light  of  the  sun,  he  loves  the 
sight  of  his  mother's  face. 

He  has  not  learned  to  despise  the  dust,  and 
to  hanker  after  gold. 

Clasp  him  to  your  heart  and  hless  him. 

He  has  come  into  this  land  of  an  hundred 
cross-roads. 

I  know  not  how  he  chose  you  from  the 
crowd,  came  to  your  door,  and  grasped  your 
hand  to  ask  his  way. 

He  will  follow  you,  laughing  and  talking, 
and  not  a  doubt  in  his  heart. 

Keep  his  trust,  lead  him  straight  and 
bless  him. 


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^IP*'                  ^^^^^* 

■ 

■w^^ 

1f9 

1 

^K                   ::^^L 

'1     ' 

BENEDICTION. 

From  a  drawing  by  Surendranath  Gangulu 


Child-Poems  75 

Lay  your  hand  on  his  head,  and  pray  that 
though  the  waves  underneath  grow  threaten- 
ing, yet  the  breath  from  above  may  come  and 
fill  his  sails  and  waft  him  to  the  haven  of 
peace. 

Forget  him  not  in  your  hurry,  let  him  come 
to  your  heart  and  bless  him. 


76  The  Crescent  Moon 


THE  GIFT 

I  WANT  to  give  you  something,  my  child, 
for  we  are  drifting  in  the  stream  of  the 
world. 

Our  lives  will  be  carried  apart,  and  our 
love  forgotten. 

But  I  am  not  so  foolish  as  to  hope  that  I 
could  buy  your  heart  with  my  gifts. 

Young  is  your  life,  your  path  long,  and  you 
drink  the  love  we  bring  you  at  one  draught 
and  turn  and  run  away  from  us. 

You  have  your  play  and  your  playmates. 
What  harm  is  there  if  you  have  no  time  or 
thought  for  us? 

We,  indeed,  have  leisure  enough  in  old  age 
to  count  the  days  that  are  past,  to  cherish  in 
our  hearts  what  our  hands  have  lost  for 
ever. 


Child-Poems  77 

The  river  runs  swift  with  a  song,  breaking 
through  all  barriers.  But  the  mountain  stays 
and  remembers,  and  follows  her  with  his  love. 


78  The  Crescent  Moon 


MY  SONG 

THIS  song  of  mine  will  wind  its  music 
around  you,  my  child,  like  the  fond 
arms  of  love. 

This  song  of  mine  will  touch  your  forehead 
like  a  kiss  of  blessing. 

When  you  are  alone  it  will  sit  by  your  side 
and  whisper  in  your  ear,  when  you  are  in  the 
crowd  it  will  fence  you  about  with  aloofness. 

My  song  will  be  like  a  pair  of  wings  to  your 
dreams,  it  will  transport  your  heart  to  the 
verge  of  the  unknown. 

It  will  be  like  the  faithful  star  overhead 
when  dark  night  is  over  your  road. 

My  song  will  sit  in  the  pupils  of  your  eyes, 
and  will  carry  your  sight  into  the  heart  of 
things. 

And  when  my  voice  is  silent  in  death,  my 
song  will  si)eak  in  your  living  heart. 


Child-Poems  79 


THE  CHILD-ANGEL 

THEY  clamour  and  fight,  they  doubt  and 
despair,  they  know  no  end  to  their 
wranglings. 

Let  your  life  come  amongst  them  like  a 
flame  of  light,  my  child,  unflickering  and 
pure,  and  delight  them  into  silence. 

They  are  cruel  in  their  greed  and  their  envy, 
their  words  are  like  hidden  knives  thirsting 
for  blood. 

Go  and  stand  amidst  their  scowling  hearts, 
my  child,  and  let  your  gentle  eyes  fall  upon 
them  like  the  forgiving  peace  of  the  evening 
over  the  strife  of  the  day. 

Let  them  see  your  face,  my  child,  and  thus 
know  the  meaning  of  all  things ;  let  them  love 
you  and  thus  love  each  other. 

Come  and  take  your  seat  in  the  bosom  of 


80  The  Crescent  Moon 

the  limitless,  my  child.  At  sunrise  open  and 
raise  your  heart  hke  a  blossoming  flower,  and 
at  sunset  bend  your  head  and  in  silence  com- 
plete the  worship  of  the  day. 


Child-Poems  81 


THE  LAST  BARGAIN 

" /^  OME  and  hire  me,"  I  cried,  while  in  the 
V^  morning  I  was  walking  on  the  stone- 
paved  road. 

Sword  in  hand,  the  King  came  in  his 
chariot. 

He  held  my  hand  and  said,  "I  wiU  hire  you 
with  my  power." 

But  his  power  counted  for  nought,  and  he 
went  away  in  his  chariot. 

In  the  heat  of  the  midday  the  houses  stood 
with  shut  doors. 

I  wandered  along  the  crooked  lane. 

An  old  man  came  out  with  his  bag  of 
gold. 

He  pondered  and  said,  "I  will  hire  you  with 
my  money." 


82  The  Crescent  Moon 

He  weighed  his  coins  one  by  one,  but  I 
turned  away. 

It  was  evening.  The  garden  hedge  was  all 
aflower. 

The  fair  maid  came  out  and  said,  "I  will 
hire  you  with  a  smile." 

Her  smile  paled  and  melted  into  tears,  and 
she  went  back  alone  into  the  dark. 

The  sun  ghstened  on  the  sand,  and  the  sea 
waves  broke  waywardly. 

A  child  sat  playing  with  shells. 

He  raised  his  head  and  seemed  to  know 
me,  and  said,  "I  hire  you  with  nothing." 

From  thenceforward  that  bargain  struck  in 
child's  play  made  me  a  free  man. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


•yHE  following  pages  are  advertisements  of  recent  in> 
portant  poetry  published  by  the  Macmillan  Company 


By  RABINDRANATH  TAGORE 

THE   GARDENER 

Translated  by  the  Author  from 
the  Original  Bengali 

Cloih.    izmo.    $1.2^  Postpaid,  $1.36 

FRONTISPIECE 


**  In  India,  Mr.  Tagore  has  a  reputation  of  an  extraor- 
dinarily exalted  and  universal  nature.  His  genius  must 
indeed  be  the  mouthpiece  of  a  national  aspiration  and 
philosophy  to  have  moved  so  profoundly  a  country  as  vast 
as  his." — The  Bookman  {London). 

"  It  seems  not  unlikely  that  this  poet  may  win  himself 
a  spiritual  empire  comparable  with  that  of  the  classic  Per- 
sians; the  future  may  see  in  his  work  the  expression  not 
merely  of  his  race  but  of  the  East  —  at  least  of  the  non- 
Turanian  East." — Laselles  Abercrombie. 

"The  prose-poems  pour  out  from  his  lips  not  merdy 
thoroughly  Indian,  but  also  thoroughly  original  and  indi- 
vidual in  form  and  matter." — The  India  Times. 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE  PROBLEM  OF  EVIL  AND 
OTHER  LECTURES 

8vo. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue.  New  York 


By  RABIWDRaKATH  TAGORE 

GitanjaK  (Song  Offerings) 

A  G>llection  of  Prose  Translations  made 
by.  the  Author  from  the  Original  Bengali 

t 

With  an  Introduction  by 

W.  B.  YEATS 

And  a  Portrait  of  the  Author  bj 
W.  ROTHENSTEIN 

Cloth.    j2mo.    $1.40 ' 

*His  poems  are  of  the  very  stuff  of  imagination,  and 
jret  gay  and  vivid  with  a  fresh  and  delicious  fancy.  Their 
beauty  is  as  delicate  as  the  reflection  of  the  colour  of  a 
flower."— rA«  WestminsUr  Gazette. 

"They  reveal  a  poet  of  undeniable  authority  and  a 
spiritual  influence  singularly  in  touch  with  modem  thought 
and  modem  needs." — The  Daily  News. 

"Mr.  Tagore's  translations  are  of  trance-like  beauty.'* 
— rAe  Athenaum. 

"...  It  is  the  essence  of  all  poetry  of  E^ast  and  West 
alike,  the  language  of  the  soul. 

— The  Indian  Magazine  and  Review. 


PUBLISHED   BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


IMPORTANT  BOOKS  OF  POETRY 

Three  New  Books 
By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

SALT  WATER  BALLADS 

Cloih.    i2tno.    $1.00  Postpaid  $t.io.' 

"  Masefield  has  prisoned  in  verse  the  spirit  of  life  at 
sea." — New  York  Sun. 

A  MAINSAIL  HAUL 

Cloth.    i2tno.    $1.2$   .   .    Postpaid  $1.36.^ 

"There  is  strength  about  everything  Masefield  writes 
that  compels  the  feeling  that  he  has  an  inward  eye  on 
which  he  draws  to  shape  new  films  of  old  pictures.  In 
these  pictures  is  freshness  combined  with  power." — Ntw 
York  Globe. 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  POMPEY 

Preparing. 

A  vigorous,  vivid  and  convincing  play,  in  the  virile  and 
impressive  vein  associated  with  Mr.  Masefield's  striking 
poetic  gifts. 

PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


IMPORTANT  BOOKS  OF  POETRY 

New  Editions  of 
JOHN  MASEFIELD'S 
Other  Works 
THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS 

Second  Edition.     $1.2$  a 

"Neither  in  the  design  nor  in  the  telling  did,  or  could, 
'Enoch  Arden'  come  near  the  artistic  truth  of  "The  Daffo- 
dil Fields.' " — Sir  Qtm.LER-CoucH,  Cambridge  University. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  ROUND-HOUSE, 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 

New  and  Revised  Edition.    $1.30 

"The  story  of  that  rounding  of  the  Horn !  Never  in 
prose  has  the  sea  been  so  tremendously  described." — 
Chicago  Evening  Post. 

THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  and  THE 
WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET 

(Awarded  the  Royal  Sodety.of  Literature's  prize  of  $Soa) 

Hew  and  Revised  Edition.    $jj2S 

"Mr.  Masefield  comes  like  a  flash  of  light  across  con- 
temporary English  poetry.  The  improbable  has  been  ac- 
complished; he  has  made  poetry  out  of  the  very  material 
that  has  refused  to  yield  it  for  almost  a  score  of  years." — 
Boston  Evening  Transcript. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


IMPOPTANT  BOOKS  OF  POETRY 

By  HERMANN  HAGEDORN 

POEMS  AND  BALLADS  $1.00     . 

"His  is  perhaps  the  most  confident  of  the  prophecies 
of  our  new  poets,  for  he  has  seen  most  dearly  the  poetry 
in  the  new  life.  His  song  is  full  of  the  spirit  of  youth  and 
hope.  ...  It  is  the  song  that  the  new  century  needs. 
His  verse  is  strong  and  flexible  and  has  an  ease,  a  natural- 
ness, a  rhythm  that  is  rare  in  young  poets.  In  many  of 
his  shorter  lyrics  he  recalls  Heine." — Boston  Transcript. 

By  FANNIE  STEARNS  DA  VIS 

MYSELF  AND  I        Cloth.     l2mo.      $1.00 

"For  some  years  the  poems  of  Miss  Da  vies  have  at- 
tracted wide  attention  in  the  best  periodicals.  That  note 
of  wistful  mysticism  which-  shimmers  in  almost  every  line 
gives  her  art  a  distinction  that  is  bound  to  make  its  appeal. 
In  this  first  book — where  every  verse  is  significant — Miss 
Davis  has  achieved  very  beautiful  and  serious  poetry." 

— Boston  Transcript, 

By  JOHN  HELSTON 

APHRODITE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Cloth.    i2mo. 

This  book  introduces  another  poet  of  promise  to  the 
verse-lovers  of  this  country.  It  is  of  interest  to  learn  that 
Mr.  Helston,  who  for  several  years  was  an  operative  me- 
chanic in  electrical  works,  has  created  a  remarkable  im- 
pression in  England  where  much  is  expected  of  him.  This 
volume,  characterized  by  verse  of  rare  beauty,  presents  his 
most  representative  work,  ranging  from  the  long  descrip- 
tive title-poem  to  shorter  lyrics. 

PUBLISHED   BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


IMPORTANT  BOOKS  OF  POETRY 


WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 


Daily  Bread 


New  Edition.     Three  volumes  In  one.    Cloth,  i2mo, 
$1.25     - 

"A  Millet  in  word-painting  who  writes  with  a  terrible 
simplicity  is  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson,  bom  in  Hexham« 
England,  in  1878,  of  whom  Canon  Cheyne  wrote:  'A  new 
poet  of  the  people  has  risen  up  among  us.'  The  story  of 
a  soul  is  written  as  plainly  in  'Daily  Bread'  as  in  "The 
Divme  Cou^edy '  and  m  'Paradise  Lost.'" — The  Outlook. 


Fires 


.  Cloth. 'i2mo.    $1.25- 

"In  'Fires'*  as  in  'Daily  Bread,'  the  fundamental  note 
is  human  sympathy  with  the  whole  of  life.  Impressive  as 
these  dramas  are,  it  is  in  their  cumulative  effect  that  they 
are  chiefly  powerful." — Atlantic  Monthly. 


Womenkind 


Cloth.    i2mo.    $1.2$ 

"Mr.  Gibson  is  a  genuine  singer  of  his  own  day  and 
turns  into  appealing  harmony  the  world's  harshly  jarring 
notes  of  poverty  and  pain." — The  Outlook. 

PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Yofk 


y76>n 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  728  796    4 


